


fun, fun, fun (till her daddy takes the t-bird away)

by jugheadjones



Series: ferris bueller, you're my hero [2]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: M/M, Parent Fic, also he says things like 'hot dog!' and 'cool your jets', fp loves him but doesnt know how to honkin tell him .... fp you fool, fred is a hot fucking mess, freds a bruce springsteen stan and we all know it, god i wish this had a consistent tone, hermiones been done real dirty in this fic shes barely in it thats why i didnt tag her babe im sorry, i guess its fredsythe, or a real ending, parentdale, reggie has two dads and they're both in here, the beach hijinks we deserve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 02:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11117565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugheadjones/pseuds/jugheadjones
Summary: “You gotta hide me, FP,” gasps Fred, out of breath.“What are you talking about?” asks FP, driving slowly along the curb so Fred has to jog to keep up, his fingers fastened in the rolled-down window.“My dad’s after me. He’s trying to get me to come into the office.”“So go.”“On a day like today? You’re only young once, FP. Being anywhere but the beach is cruel and unusual punishment.”





	fun, fun, fun (till her daddy takes the t-bird away)

 

 

 

 

> _"first of all, you can never go too far."_
> 
> _\- Ferris Bueller's Day Off_

 

* * *

 

“Are you reading that again?”

Fred uses his guitar magazine to shield his eyes from the sun. “Mom...”

“You know, maybe if Bruce Springsteen asked you, you’d do some work around the house for once and give your poor mother a break. Maybe I should phone him up.”

“Mom, you’re blocking my light.”

“FRED!?” He hears his dad’s voice floating out from the back porch door, telephone cord stretched as far from the kitchen as it would allow. “Where is that boy?”

“He’s out here, dear.” Mrs. Andrews turns away from her son to shout back across the lawn. Fred waits.

(T minus five seconds until he has to make a break for it.)

“What?”

Mrs. Andrews shakes her head and starts heading back toward the house. “He’s out in the hammock.”

“He’s out where?”

Her foot hits the porch. “Out back.”

Fred flips out of the hammock, hits the ground on all fours, and runs.

Out the back gate. Through someone’s garden. Down the street. Around the block.

In a stroke of luck, or fate, or genius, he rounds the corner just as a familiar car is turning the corner onto the tree-lined drive.

“HEY! HEY! FP!” Bursting through a sprinkler, he races down to the street, almost colliding with the smooth side of his best friend’s car.

“You gotta hide me, F.P,” gasps Fred, out of breath.

“What are you talking about?” asks FP, driving slowly along the curb so Fred has to jog to keep up, his fingers fastened in the rolled-down window.

“My dad’s after me. He’s trying to get me to come into the office.”

“So go.”

“On a day like today?” FP stops the car. Fred’s panting as he pops open the stuck car door and climbs knees-first onto the front seat. “You’re only young once, FP. Being anywhere but the beach is cruel and unusual punishment.”

FP rolls his eyes and reaches out to shut the car door after him. “You spend more energy avoiding work than doing it.”

“You’re one to - shit.”

Mr. Andrews has just turned the corner on foot, heading straight for FP’s car.

“There’s a blanket in the back,” says FP as Fred dives for the backseat. “Cover yourself up.”

“Cool.”

Fred’s dad is waving him down, and FP pulls up to the curb.

“Hi, FP. You seen my son?”

“No, sir.”

The older man peers inside the cab of the car, and FP fights the urge to glance at the backseat. Fred would pull this one off or he wouldn’t. FP wasn’t going to interfere with the course of fate.

“No, huh?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“If you see him, you tell him I’m looking for him, okay?”

“Will do, sir.”

“All right.” Mr. Andrews pats the side of the car. “That haircut looks good on you, FP.”

“Thanks.”

He pulls carefully away from the curb and merges back into traffic. “Coast is clear.” he says, once they’re a couple blocks away.

Fred sits up abruptly in the back, brushing leaves and dirt out of his hair. “Geez. Why’s your car so dirty?”

“You know, it wouldn’t kill you.” says FP as Fred climbs back into the front seat. “Your dad’s trying to give you a job. Most of us would give an arm and a leg for that.”

Fred plops down in the passenger seat, brushing his hair back up in the front. “You’d have a job too, if you didn’t cut all those porn frames into movie reels at the twilight.”

“They weren’t porn. Not real porn. And no one would have seen them. It was an experiment.” He picks a bit of mulch out of Fred’s hair. “There’s leaves in your hair.”

“Experiment, huh.” Fred pops open the glovebox and starts rummaging through the cassettes. “You should talk to Tanya Doiley, you know. She likes science too. And she thinks you’re cute.”

“No, thanks.”

Fred ignores him. “Hey, I’ll bet she’ll be at the beach today.”

“Who says we’re going to the beach? I’m mowing lawns. You can help if you want.”

“Oh, come on, FP. How much money are you going to make at that? Twenty bucks? For breaking your back in the sun for hours?”

“You’re the one who wants to work construction.”

“I want to build things. Things that stay there. You cut the grass, it’s just gonna grow again next week.”

“Then I’ll cut it again and make another twenty bucks.”

Fred sighs, exasperated, helping himself to a bottle of suntan lotion. “You have no sense of adventure.”

“I don’t need any adventure. What I do need is money. Get that away from me, it reeks.”

“What, you were gonna cut grass all day and not put any on?” Fred slaps his palm against FP’s arm, leaving a white imprint. “You’re pale as a ghost anyways. A day at the beach will do you good.”

“You’re the laziest person I’ve ever met, and as I’m including myself in that, that’s saying something.”

“I’m not lazy, I’m just selective about my summertime activities.”

“That’s what I said, you’re lazy.” FP glances at him as they pause at a stoplight. “How are you going to go swimming anyway? You don’t have a swimsuit.”

“I’m wearing one under my clothes.”

Fp has to admit, Fred knew what the plan was from the moment he woke up today. “I don’t have a choice in this, do I?”

“I’ll buy us chili cheese dogs. My treat.”

“Well, hell, you should have led with that.”

* * *

 Fred cheers loudly when they finally find a parking spot, hopping out of the car without a glance back at FP. “Let’s go!”

FP’s wrestling with the lock on the back door. “Hang on.”

Fred comes jogging back and ducks down so he’s level with the side mirror, combing his hair with his fingers. “Do I look okay? Hermione might be there.”

“Hermione knows what you look like.”

“Just tell me if I look okay!”

“Yes!”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Fred snorts. “I always look okay to you, FP.”

“Yeah.” says FP, the irony not lost on him. “You do.”

But Fred’s already running off and doesn’t hear him.

 

* * *

 

“Well, look who it is.” announces Alice when they come strolling over the sand. She and Hermione had scoped out a prime location for their two towels and bags, in a stretch of beach that was evenly between the snack shack and the waves without being too close to either. “Thought you were cutting lawns, FP.”

“Change of plans.” he grunts, flopping down on the towel beside her. Fred drops down beside him, wiggling his toes in the hot sand.

“See, FP? This is where you should be on a day like today.”

“You two are in luck.” offers Alice. “There’s a swimsuit contest going on over the dune.”

“Nah, those don’t interest me.” says Fred, laying down and nuzzling Hermione’s hair. “A lot of sexist bullshit.”

“You’ll like this one,” says Alice, a wicked spark in her eyes. “It’s all guys.”

“A guys swimsuit contest?!”

“Great,” complains Hermione, suntanning on her stomach on a towel. “Let’s objectify everyone to even the playing field.”

“Personally, I’m all for objectifying men,” argues Alice, rubbing suntan lotion on her arms.

“Me too!” interrupts Fred cheerfully, getting to his feet. “Come on, FP, let’s go look.”

“Nah, I’ll stay here.”

“Oh, come on.” Fred pulls him to his feet, his hand gritty with sand and lotion, and FP has no choice but to let him. “Let’s just check it out. Over the dune, you said?”

“Bring me back a diet coke,” calls Hermione, facedown on the towel.

“And a tall, dark, Australian boy” adds Alice, winking at FP.

They run. They don’t have to run, but the heat of the sand and Fred’s insistent hand in his presses him onward. Fred skids to a stop in front of a set of towels. “Hey, Tanya. Can I borrow your binoculars?”

She looks up at him cooly through her glasses, a heavy volume on what looks like investments balanced on her tanned legs. “What for?”

“Bird watching.”

“You mean girl watching?”

“No,” says Fred honestly. “I promise it’s not.”

“Hmm.” She glances at FP. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll take good care of them! I’ll get them back to you by two.”

“Sorry.” She shrugs. “I left them at home.”

Fred gestures to a pair of binoculars leaning against a lunch pail. “They’re right there!”

“Those belong to my friend.”

“Aw, she won’t mind. We’re just gonna use em for half an hour or so.”

Tanya shrugs. “Sorry.”

Fred sighs but grabs FP’s hand again. “All right, come on FP.”

From the top of the hill they can see several tents set up, and swarths of shirtless figures moving around, but it’s impossible to tell what’s going on from that distance.

“We can’t see anything without binoculars.” says FP. “Can we go back now?”

“No way! You want binoculars, I’ll get you binoculars. Stay here.”

Fred heads back down the hill, leaving FP alone. He seats himself on a rocky outcropping and runs his fingers through the sand. When Fred comes jogging back up he has a pair of heavy binoculars slung around his neck.

“How’d you get those?”

“I made a trade.”

“What’d you give her?”

“A date with you.”

“What!?”

“Relax.” Fred flops onto his stomach lifting the heavy binoculars to his eyes. “She really likes you, like I said.”

“I don’t want a date with her.”

“Sure you do! She’s smart, beautiful, funny-”

“I hardly know her.”

“Relax, FP.”

 _“I want a date with you!”_ FP wants to scream. But he takes a deep breath in through his nose, steadying himself. “You can’t just go around auctioning me off-”

“Ooh!” Fred shoves the binoculars into FP’s hands, interrupting him. “Check out the one in the blue.”

FP sighs and obediently lifts the binoculars to his eyes. “Which one?”

“With the wavy hair.”

“Blonde or brown?”

“Blonde!”

“Huh.” FP stares through the binoculars for a moment, and then passes them back. Fred takes them with a frown.

“Don’t you think he’s cute?”

“I dunno, I’m not really into beefcakes.”

Fred cracks a grin. “That’s why you hang out with me, is it?” He props his elbows back up and puts the binoculars back to his face. “They’re all just standing around. Do you think they ask them dumb questions like they do with girls’ pageants?”

“Beats me.”

“We’ll get a better view over there,” says Fred, scrambling to his feet and charging off. “Let’s go.”

“Fred-”

But he’s already gone. FP shakes his head, following Fred at a run further down the beach, away from the snack stand. He’d already given up hope of seeing that chili dog.

Over the dune they find Rick Banks, already on his stomach on the sand, eyes fixed on the parade of men in swimsuits below. He scowls at them as Fred lands on his knees beside him. “All right, budge over Andrews. I was here first.”

Fred laughs. “Hey, no worries. There’s room for all three of us.” He stretches out beside Rick, wriggling into a comfortable position with the binoculars. “I thought you’d be down at the main beach where all the action is.”

“The action’s right here, as far as I’m concerned.” says Rick, eyes still glued to a spot below them. “Most of them are professional bodybuilders.”

FP takes his place on the sand with more trepidation. Rick himself didn’t bother him, but where Rick was, Hal Cooper was usually close behind, and Hal and FP hadn’t parted amicably the last time they’d spoken.

“You here with Hal?” asks Fred, as if reading his mind. “Cause Alice is with us.”

“No.” grunts Rick simply. His gaze hasn’t moved, and Fred swivels the binoculars to try and intercept Rick’s line of vision.

“Hey, is that Vic Mantle?”

Rick’s ears redden, but he acts like he hadn’t noticed. “Where?”

“Down there schmoozing with all those oiled up bodybuilders.” Fred drops the binoculars so they dangle around his neck, a grin lighting up his cheeks. “Don’t act like you weren’t staring. That’s why you’re really here, aren’t you?”

“No,” says Rick with dignity, which just makes Fred grin brighter and more obnoxiously. Without taking his eyes from Rick’s face, he passes the binoculars to FP, who focuses them carefully on their dark-haired classmate below. Sure enough it’s Vic, holding himself up to his full height to seem older as he chats with what FP assumes is one of the judges.

“Ooh, you better move fact, Banks,” teases FP. “He’s getting mighty close to some ape in a red banana-hammock.”

“I don’t care,” says Rick abruptly, glancing with some longing at the binoculars. “Look, why don’t you two clowns fuck off back to wherever you came from.”

“Rick and Vic…” teases Fred, his voice sing-song. “You’re picturing him in one of those little speedos, aren’t you? I know who’d get your vote in a beauty contest.”

“Fuck off.”

“Don’t act coy, Banks,” smirks FP. “You’re practically drooling.”

“No need to deny it, Rick,” says Fred cheerfully, clapping a hand on their classmate’s back. “We know you want him to do filthy, filthy things to you.”

“Shut up-”

“Ooh, _Rick_ -” Fred mimics, “Your arms are so strong. Take me away, Rick, ravish me on the beach-”

“Ooh, Rick-” joins in FP. “Ooh, Rick-!”

Fred rolls over onto his back, laughing hysterically. Grinning, FP keeps it up. “Oooh, Rick!” he cries, raising the pitch of his voice even higher - “you’re so handsome, I can’t believe you scored the winning touchdown _again_ -”

“Oooh, Rick -!” joins in Fred, his voice shaking with laughter. “Your dick is _enormous_ , Rick-”

“Ooh, Rick, is that your real hair?”

“You’re so sexy, Rick, I want to have all your babies-”

Rick gets to his feet abruptly, ears flaming red. “If you two ingrates won’t take this performance elsewhere, I guess I’ll leave.”

Fred and FP are laughing too hard to reply, rolling around together in the sand. FP keeps an eye on Rick’s fists, just in case, but doesn’t seem in the mood to start swinging.

“I hope you two choke.” snaps Rick instead, grabbing his towel and sandals from a patch of grass.

“Don’t hurry back.”

“Have fun man-watching, you perverts!” Rick stomps off down the beach, his dramatic departure sullied somewhat by an uneven patch of ground that makes him stumble. Fred’s the last of the two to recover, fastening his hands over his stomach as he laughs on his back, eyes squeezed shut against the sun. FP admires him for a moment while Fred can’t see him doing it, his tanned face upturned to the sky, his white teeth bared in a grin.

“What a butthead.” says Fred with a last snort of laughter, flipping around to lay back on his stomach. They’re much closer now than they were before, damp arms overlapping in the sand. Fred’s bare ankle brushes the side of FP’s calf, and his gut does a loop-the-loop.

“Yeah,” he says belatedly, realizing he’s still holding the binoculars. He passes them obediently to Fred, who takes them and raises them back to his eyes.

“I wonder if we can get down there. Vic got in.”

“Yeah, but what would we do?”

“Pass ourselves off as contestants, naturally,” grins Fred, flexing one arm. “What do you think?”

“I think you’d better find a junior division.”

“Aw, shut up.” The laugh lines around his eyes crinkle back up. “I’m not the one with the awful T-shirt tan. You look like a farmer.”

“Good thing there’s no one I’m trying to impress with my shirt off.”

Fred hangs the binoculars back around his neck. “All right, let’s do it.”

“What? Come on. We’ll get thrown out.” His irritation spikes: he’s had enough of bodybuilders for a day. “There’s no way you’ll actually pass yourself off-”

“Not _actually_ pretend to compete. Let’s just go down and see. Picture it, FP.” Fred slings an arm around him. “We’ll get down there, and they’ll say: ‘our last two judges just quit on us and we have no one to replace them’. And we’ll say-”

“ _You’ll_ say-”

“ _I’ll_ say that we’re experts on the male physique, naturally. They’ll be falling at our feet asking us to judge the contest. We’ll award some gorgeous guy the winner, and him and his super hot, rich best friend will come over, stare deep into our eyes and fall madly in love with us-”

“If you wanted super rich, you could just get Vic Mantle and Rick.” It comes out more annoyed than he’d intended, and Fred makes a face.

“Geez, you’re crotchety today. Who peed in your cereal?”

“No one.”

Fred puts the binoculars back up to his face. “I have dibs on the one in blue.”

“Fine by me.”

Fred lowers the binoculars again, exasperated. “Seriously, what’s with you?”

“Nothing,” murmurs FP, and Fred turns once again back to the beach below. In this light FP can make out the downy blonde hairs that sweep along his spine. It’s just the two of them this far up, and he can suddenly feel his heart beating quicker. Emboldened, FP reaches out and touches the small of Fred’s back.

“Hey, Fred-”

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t a couple of peeping Thomases.”

They turn at the same time, and Fred’s head narrowly misses a collision with FP’s nose. A young redhead in a blue bikini is standing half a foot away from them on the sand, arms folded. “Tanya told me you had my binoculars.”

“Mary.” FP knows her through Hermione, if nothing else. She scowls at her name, though her flashing eyes are fixed with the utmost displeasure on Fred.

“I should have known it’d be you.”

“Come on, he whored me out for those,” FP tries to joke. “Let him have his fun.”

“It’s ok,” grins Fred, unhooking the strap around his neck and holding them out to her. “She wants to see for herself, I get it.”

Mary snatches them from his hand at a distance as though afraid of coming into contact with his skin. “Give me those.”

FP watches her storm off across the sand. “That girl really doesn’t like you.”

Fred is staring after Mary. “Fred?” He passes a hand in front of Fred’s eyes. “Earth to Fred!”

“What?” For a moment Fred looks morose, then his face re-arranges itself into a smile. “Hey, do you want that chili dog?”

“We’re not going to judge a beauty contest?”

“Nah, let’s get dogs.” Fred gets up, brushing his sandy knees off. “You were right. Enough muscled hunks for a day.”

* * *

 

They’re a few feet away from the snack shack when Fred freezes. FP collides with his back and almost knocks him over. “What now?”

“Let’s go to the other one.”

“What?”

Fred’s hand fits into his and squeezes, and for a second that’s all FP can feel. “I just feel like going to the other snack place.” He starts tugging on FP’s hand, pulling him back toward the way they came. “Let’s go.”

“Fred, what’s going on?”

“Nothing. Uh. I heard the ice cream machine is broken at this one.”

“We’re not _getting_ ice cream.” FP tries to plant his feet in the sand as Fred yanks on his arm, turning to squint at the line of kids waiting to order. “Who’s there that you don’t want to see.”

“No one. I just suddenly really want ice cream. Is that so hard for you to-” A tall brunette seated at the counter turns to look over her shoulder, and Fred pales. “Run.”

“Run?!” asks FP, bemused. “What-”

“There he is,” he hears the brunette say to her friend. FP blinks, suddenly aware that Fred’s released his hand. He turns to see his friend sprinting off across the sand, arms pumping.

“Fred, he moans, taking off after him, “What did you _do?”_

“Nothing!” Fred yells back over his shoulder. “Let’s run in the water so we don’t leave footprints.”

“I don’t think they’re following us. Seriously, what did you-”

“Nothing!”

“Then why are we running like idiots!?”

FP has an athlete's stamina and keeps pace with him easily, Fred is gasping for breath, feet slipping in the sand. “Well-” He grabs FP’s arm to keep from face-planting into the surf- “I accidentally went on a date with both of them to the same movie at the same time. But otherwise, nothing.”

FP tugs hard on Fred’s arm to stop him, pulling Fred to him so that Fred’s chest collides with his stomach. They’re ankle-deep in the water, feet clumsy in the wet sand, and Fred’s foot comes down hard on one of FP’s, toenails digging in. He doesn’t feel it. Fred grins up at FP, their faces inches apart, and FP sees stars.

“You don’t mind if we go to the other snack stand, do you?”

“Idiot.” He’s still holding Fred’s wrist, and he can feel the pulse flying under his fingers. Fred grins and steps back off FP’s foot, planting his free hand on FP’s shoulder for support.

“I thought I was in the clear for that one,” he breathes, chest heaving. “They must have compared notes.”

FP’s sarcastic response dies on his tongue. His heart is beating so hard in his throat it drowns out all other sound. He’s holding one of Fred’s hands and Fred is holding him with the other hand, both shirtless and breathless and damp from the sand and it feels right. It feels -

“Chili dogs?” asks Fred, eyes bright and hopeful and too-close to him.

“Yeah,” agrees FP. “Lead the way.”

* * *

 

“How is it you have this much money if you don’t have a job?” complains FP as Fred unrolls a wad of bills from his pocket.

“They’re all ones.” Fred dumps a crumpled heap of change out of his swimsuit pocket - the coins roll crazily all over the aluminum-topped picnic table. “Help me count. I promised Hermione a soda, remember.”

Hermione has probably made half a dozen of their classmates buy her sodas by now, but FP tactfully decides against mentioning this to Fred. He pulls a handful of change toward him and starts counting.

“Two dollars, fifteen cents. How many bills do you have?”

“Seven.” He dumps them on FP’s lap, somehow more crumpled after having counted them than they’d been in his pocket. “Hang on, eight.”

“You’ve got $10.15, then.”

“Hot dog!” Fred reacts as if FP had just told him he’d won the lottery. “That’s more than I thought.”

“You’re the only person I’ve ever heard say ‘hot dog!’ unironically. Actually, at all. In any way that wasn’t in reference to the sausage.”

“Hot dog!” says Fred again, just to annoy him. “What do you want on yours?”

“Everything.”

“What else is new. You want a drink?”

“Nah, save your money.”

“No, it’s fine! I owe you one.” Fred sweeps a jingling handful of quarters into his palm. “You want a root beer or what?”

“Fine.” FP relents. “A big one, since you’re buying.”

“Coming up.”

FP rests his chin on his palms as he watches Fred skip up to the window. He was loath to admit it, but he was having fun - more than he would have had mowing lawns anyway. And anywhere was better than being home.

“HEY FP!!” Fred’s hollering at him from the stand. “THEY’RE OUT OF PICKLES.”

“IT’S FINE!” he yells back.

“WANT EXTRA RELISH?!”

“WHATEVER.”

Fred comes hurrying back to the table a moment later, three large sodas balanced on a drink tray. “Yours, mine, Hermione’s.” He dictates, pointing to each of them in turn. “You can drink outta mine, but not hers. I’m gonna go wait for our dogs.”

Then he’s off again. Fred moves from place to place like his ass is on fire. FP can’t remember the last time he was that excited about anything.

He pulls the nearest soda toward him and takes a sip, frowning as the dense sweetness of ice cream hits his tongue. Instead of a root beer, Fred had sprung for a rootbeer float, which happened to be FP’s favourite.

He was an idiot, but he was a sweet idiot.

He takes an experimental sip from Fred’s cup, which is just soda. It’s not diet: FP’s pallette is sensitive and attuned to the difference. If there was ever anyone who needed _less_ sugar in their drink it was Fred, and not Hermione. Then again, he and Fred had once polished off a whole package of red licorice during the six minutes of trailers before Star Wars. They were well on their way to both being diabetics before they hit thirty-five.

“You know what we need?” Fred had come back without FP noticing, a dripping chili dog in both hands. He thrusts one into FP’s fingers. “You get the one with tomatoes.”

“Did you get any napkins?”

“Napkins are for the weak.” Fred takes a huge bite, chili dripping down his chin. “You know what we need?”

“What if a girl comes by, then you’ll want a napkin.”

“Or a guy.” Fred winks at him. “So, you know what we-”

“God, just tell me.”

“One of those big boomboxes.” He squints at FP. “You know what I mean. Doesn’t Alice have one?”

“You don’t?” It surprises him. Fred has four older sisters, there isn’t much in the way of beach equipment they don’t own.

“I dunno where it is.” Fred takes a sip of his cola. “I think Susan took it to college. Plus, it’s old as hell. I want a new one.”

“Well, good luck with $10.15”

“$6.15 now. But be serious. Do you know anyone that owns one?”

“Jerry might. You know more people than I do. You’re only going to be able to play it for ten minutes anyway before you get busted for noise pollution.”

“It's a beach, it’s supposed to be noisy!”

“Don’t tell me, tell the hypothetical beach patrol that are busting you.”

“Hypothetically.”

“It’ll happen.”

Fred stares out across the water. There’s a huge smear of ketchup over his lips and FP wants to lick it off. “We should’ve been lifeguards this summer.”

“I hate blood.” FP sucks some relish off his thumb. “And people.”

“C’mon, it would be exciting. Imagine rescuing the love of your life.”

“We’d probably end up rescuing a bunch of kids or ninety year olds, if anything. Besides, Weatherbee goes swimming here. Imagine rescuing a teacher.”

“Your grades would go up.”

“I’ll fail out of school before I give CPR to The Bee. Besides, I have a feeling there’s a lot less rescuing than you think.”

It’s too late, Fred’s eyes have that glazed over look to them, and FP knows he’s imagining himself lifting Hermione out of the surf. Never mind that Hermione could probably kick Fred’s ass if they went one-on-one.

“I could lifeguard then, and you could be beach patrol. That would be cool.”

“Beach patrol picks up _garbage_ , Fred.”

“Garbage like Hal Cooper.” Fred’s eyes are bright, convinced. “Imagine telling him and his goons to get lost whenever they come down here. You’d like that.”

“His goons are my teammates. How am I supposed to play football next year if I piss them all off?”

Fred sighs. “Well, I still think I could be a lifeguard.”

“Right, and you’re gonna study for the test?”

Fred’s face falls. “There’s a test?”

FP rolls his eyes around a mouthful of chili dog. Swallows. “You’d probably have to pull splinters out of kids’ feet and stuff, anyway. You’re better off.”

“Can you eat and walk?” Fred asks, forgetting his lifeguarding ambitions, and FP sees Hermione’s name still glowing in the depths of his eyes.

“Hang on, I’m almost done.” FP swallows the last bite of his chili dog, and Fred looks at him with respect.

“I bet no one can eat like you.” he says admiringly. “We should have an eating contest.”

Great. His one claim to Fred’s attention is that he can suck down food like a pig.

“If I’m eating fast it takes all the fun out.” he protests. “I can’t taste em.”

Fred gets up and pulls a face. “My thighs got stuck to the chair.” he offers as explanation. “You know, we could always go quantity over speed. Like how many hot dogs you can eat. How many hot dogs do you think you can eat?”

“I’ve never tried.”

“Just guess.”

“At once?”

“Yeah.”

“I dunno, a dozen?” FP reaches out with his bare hand and wipes the sauce as best he can off Fred’s chin. “You’re covered in chili.”

Fred uses the crook of his arm. “Really, a dozen?”

“Maybe.”

They’re crossing the main part of the far beach now, nearest to the east parking lot. Fred stops abruptly, and FP fastens a hand on the scruff of his neck. “No more girls.”

“This one doesn’t count.” Fred scowls and takes a step toward a group of equally matched girls and boys on towels a few years older than them. “Hey, ugly.”

It’s the youngest of Fred’s older sisters, a magazine spread open beside her, her eyes hidden under a pair of enormous sunglasses. “Hey assbreath.” she greets him. “Dad was on the warpath when you left.”

“Well, he’s not gonna find out I’m here, is he?” asks Fred in a fake-threatening voice.

“I’m no snitch.” She shoots a sweet smile at FP. “Hey Forsythe.”

“Hey.”

“Was he really mad?” interrupts Fred, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “Or just kinda mad.”

“You’re probably okay by the time he gets home. But he was P.O’d.” She pops a french fry in her mouth and bats her eyes at FP. Or at least he assumes she’s doing it under her glasses. “You wanna join us, FP? We’re gonna go for a drive later. Billy’s cousin owns a cottage up on the river. All private property. There’s a rope swing and everything.” She smiles sweetly at Fred. “Only room for one in the car, unfortunately.”

“Aw, knock it off. FP doesn’t want to hang out with you losers.”

“I guess he prefers losers his own age.”

FP grins and tries to hide it with a sip of his soda. Fred, scowling, tilts his soda so that a smattering of coke pours out onto her magazine. “Oops.”

“Hey!” She kicks her legs out of the way, upending the basket of fries. Billy, the nearest boyfriend to hand, rises up off his towel. “He bothering you?”

“It’s just my kid brother, it’s fine.”

Billy comes over anyway, cracking his knuckles. “Hey,” he addresses Fred, “how ‘bout you and Creepy McGee make like a tree and leave.”

Fred won’t be intimidated. “How bout you learn to wear deodorant? You smell like a pig farm.”

FP sucks the last of his float down, just in case there’s a fight. But Fred’s sister rolls her eyes and tugs Billy back down by his shirt. “Lay off of them, Billy. He’s not wrong, anyway.”

Billy notices the spilled fries and frowns. “Hey, my fries.”

“Let’s make like a tree,” whispers Fred in FP’s ear and FP snorts. Fred waves to her sister. “See you at home, Sister Ugly-Hair.”

“Not if I see you first, buttwipe.” Then she calls out: “You owe me three bucks for this magazine.”

“How come you let my sisters flirt with you?” asks Fred as they’re walking away. “It’s creepy.”

“They’re just kidding around.” FP shrugs. “I don’t mind it.”

“Well, I mind.” Fred looks nervous as they get closer to the snack bar. “Let’s cut through the volleyball nets, okay?”

“Come on, really?”

“Yeah.” Fred straightens his head up. “It’s faster.”

“And you’re all about speed.” FP starts laughing and Fred squints at him.

“What’s with you?”

FP grins. “Make like a tree and leave.”

Fred bursts out laughing now too. “What a moron.”

“Hey,” mimics FP in a dopey voice. “My fries!”

Fred laughs so hard he almost drops his tray of drinks. “Man, I think I saw Hal Cooper’s future.”

FP steps on Fred’s foot on purpose. “Hey, I was thinking, maybe I will date your sister.”

“You couldn’t handle her.” Fred’s eyes light up and he thrusts the tray of drinks into FP’s hands. “Hold this for a sec. Hey! Jerry!”

“Fred-!”

But he’s already off and running. Jerry Mason is tapping a volleyball solo up and down in the air by one of the nets, showing off his tanned, muscular arms. Fred looks remarkably small and lean next to him, but he flies right up to the taller boy without hesitation.

“Hey, Jerry, FP says you have one of those big boomboxes, you know what I mean?”

Jerry keeps the ball in the air effortlessly. “You mean that play cassettes and stuff?”

“Yeah.” Fred follows the volleyball with his eyes. “See, I wanna do something really romantic for Hermione. I’m gonna make her a big picnic, and I’ll have a tape with all her favourite music, and I’ll set it up over at the north beach where it’s really quiet, and-”

FP rolls his eyes. He should have known that every thought that passed through Fred’s brain was a step on the road to wooing Hermione. Jerry looks skeptical, but softens when Fred smiles hopefully. “All right, fine. I’ll do it for love.”

“You’re the best wide receiver in the history of Riverdale High,” says Fred, glowing. “Thanks, Jer. I promise I’ll-”

“Hang on.” He keeps bopping the volleyball, sending it higher and higher every time it comes back down. “There’s one condition.”

“Name it.” says Fred immediately. “We’ll do anything.”

The royal ‘we’ isn’t lost on Jerry, who grins at FP over Fred’s head. “You and FP have to play a game of volleyball with me later.”

“That’s it?” Fred beams. “We’ll do that for free. Meet you at four?”

“Sounds good. Hey, FP, c’mere.”

Jerry motions him over, and FP approaches hesitantly. “Yeah?”

Jerry leans in, sheltering his mouth with one broad hand. “We can play you and me against him if you want, and we’ll pummel him.”

FP grins. “How’d you know he was driving me crazy?”

“You’ve got that look in your eyes.” Jerry claps him on the back, smiling at Fred’s suspicious frown. “See you guys at four.”

“What did he say to you?” demands Fred as they cross the sand.

“Nothing. Just that you and Hermione make a cute couple.”

* * *

 

Alice and Hermione are back on their towels when they get there, though Alice’s damp hair suggests she’s been swimming. She’s bent over touching up her cherry-red toenail polish. Hermione looks like she hasn’t moved except to flip over onto her back.

“How was the beauty contest?” Alice asks FP as Fred rushes to Hermione’s side. Hermione takes a single sip of the soda Fred hands her, grimaces, and spits it out.

“It’s warm.”

“I’ll get you a new one!” Fred is on his feet in an instant. Alice cringes as he kicks up sand. “Keep the sand off, my toes are drying.”

“It was fine.” says FP. “No one fell madly in love with us.”

“Pity.” Alice plucks a cigarette out of her handbag and pops it into her mouth. “Pass me a lighter, FP.”

“Ally, there’s no smoking here.” says Fred.

“Who are you, the beach patrol?”

FP rolls his eyes. “Don’t get him started.”

“You want a drink, Al?” asks Fred, a bit guiltily. Alice shakes her head, fluffing out her blonde hair. “I’m okay.”

“You coming F?”

“Well, I was going to sit with…” He caves when he looks up into Fred’s eyes. “Okay. Fine. But we’re not running.”

He leans against the side of the shack this time as Fred counts out change to pay for a second diet coke. “You know, you’d have a lot more money to go around if you didn’t waste it all on girls.”

“Who says I’m wasting it?” Fred checks his reflection in the warped plastic of the menu board, running a hand through his hair. “This is gonna be the year for Hermione and I, FP, I’m telling you.”

That was precisely what FP was worried about. “How about Hiram?”

Fred scowls. “Don’t say that name around me. That - girlfriend stealer.”

“He can’t steal someone who’s not yours.”

“Not _yet_. And everyone knows we’re an item. Who’s side are you on, anyhow?”

FP only sighs tiredly. “Your side. Always your side.”

Fred looks at him, really looks at him, for the first time. “You okay?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“You’re not mad I dragged you out here?”

“No. I’m not.”

Fred looks momentarily troubled, but then smiles sunnily again. “Let’s ask Hermione if she wants to go swimming, okay?”

“Sounds good.”

* * *

This time Fred throws himself right down on the towel with Hermione, tickling her. “I’m back.”

“Ugh-” She pushes him off, plucking a mouthful of hair out of her lipgloss. “You’re wet!”

“We ran through the water.” With a great show of ceremony, he places the diet coke in front of her and smooches her on the cheek. “For my princess. With extra ice.”

“Yuck.” says Alice aloud as FP settles himself down on her towel. She blows a perfect smoke ring, pushing her painted toes into FP’s lap. He snakes an arm around her. “If you two are going to be sappy, find a different spot.”

Hermione takes a single dainty sip and then sighs. “I really wish I had some ice cream.”

“Oh, _no-_ ” protests FP, but Fred is already on his feet.

“What flavour?”

Hermione beams up at him. “Butterscotch ripple.”

Fred turns to FP next, and he sighs. Alice’s crimson-painted mouth turns up in a grin and she blows a mouthful of smoke in his face.

“See you when you get back.”

* * *

 

They’ve been standing in line for ten minutes at the snack shack when the girl at the window tells them they’re out of ice cream. FP has to grab Fred’s hand to keep him from plunking fifty cents in the tip jar anyway.

“She was cute,” he says dazedly as FP drags him down the beach.

“Hermione. Focus, Fred.”

The next snack bar doesn’t have butterscotch ripple. FP practically gets on his knees and begs Fred to buy her caramel and pass it off as the same, but Fred insists he saw an ice cream wagon down by the parking lot. FP’s bare feet are starting to grow blisters by the time they get there.

“One butterscotch ripple,” Fred announces proudly to the vendor, flashing his fistful of crappy one-dollar bills like he’s a bigshot lawyer with a credit card. “For my girl.”

He’s so proud that the guy gives him an extra scoop for free. FP volunteers to scoop it off the top and eat it, so Hermione doesn’t get mad about Fred ruining her diet, but Fred won’t listen to him.

He does, however, let FP strategically lick the drips off the cone, occasionally hitting the hot skin of Fred’s wrist with his tongue. At one point Fred tilts his head and licks a bunch of melted ice cream off his skin that FP had missed, leaving a wide streak of their mixed saliva glittering across his wrist. It reminds him of that blood brother oath they’d done as kids, and how he’d almost fainted even though the wound had barely broken the skin and was no longer than a papercut.

_Is it okay to want to fuck your blood brother?_

They run the last few metres back to the towels. Alice is still there, puffing lazily on a cigarette, but Hermione’s towel is gone. Her bag is missing too, Fred’s t-shirt and shorts piled where it had been. Fred circles the towels with the ice cream melting in his hand, looking confused and heartbroken, as if he’s just overlooked her somehow and if he squints she’ll reappear.

Then Alice confirms the worst. “Hiram came by. He drove her home.”

Fred is a warm, friendly guy on the worst of days. Fred doesn’t even raise his voice most of the time. But the look in his eyes right now is pure, ice-cold rage. “What way did they go?”

“It was fifteen minutes ago, Fred.”

“I didn’t ask, I asked what way they went?”

“West parking lot.”

Fred throws the ice cream down on the sand and takes off running.

“They’re _gone_ , Fred!”

If he hears Alice call after him, he doesn’t acknowledge her. FP watches Fred get smaller and smaller in the distance, feeling frozen to the spot, feet suddenly heavy as lead. Alice sets her lips in a thin line and stubs out her cigarette.

“I’m heading out too.” She swings her handbag over her shoulder, jerking her head toward where the lifeguard stations were. “Gotta be home for dinner, and beach patrol busted me for smoking. They said they’re calling the cops because I gave them lip, but they always say that.” She pecks FP on the cheek. “Take care of him, okay?”

“You couldn’t have held her up for ten minutes?”

“Hermione does what she wants.” Alice wipes the lipstick left on FP’s cheek with her thumb. “Call me later.”

* * *

 They go swimming after all.

He’s not sure, but he thinks Fred might be crying.

Every time he comes close to determining if Fred’s eyes are red from swimming or from tears, Fred will duck his head back under and emerge to spit a stream of water at FP’s face. He’s all smiles and vapid chatter, like always, but anyone who knew him could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

“Why don’t we just head home?” asks FP as they’re treading water. “You can lay low at mine.”

Fred shakes his head, wet hair flopping. “Nah, I’m good. Besides, we’re gonna play volleyball.”

“You don’t even like volleyball.”

Fred ducks his head back under again.

On their fifth trip back to shore from the buoy that marked the deepest safe part of the beach, the lifeguard on duty is being replaced by a tall black girl of about eighteen. For once in his life, FP welcomes the sight. Nothing could perk Fred up like a cute girl.

“Hey. Check out who’s lifeguarding.” he offers. Sure enough, Fred’s eyes light up.

“I think her name’s Kirsty. I saw her talking to Alice earlier.” He’s paddling back out toward the deep water at top speed. FP keeps pace with him.

“Fred, if you do the whole fake-drowning schtick-”

“Cool your jets! I’m not gonna fake drowning. You’re gonna fake drowning and I’m gonna save you.”

FP pounces on his head and holds it under. Fred emerges, sputtering. “Fine. It was a bad idea.”

“Being friends with you was a bad idea.”

“Rude.” Fred looks considerably happier despite himself, splashing FP in the face. “After volleyball, let’s see how far down the inlet we can swim.”

There are rocky beaches on the north side of Riverdale Public Beach that are only accessible by swimming. They’re also known makeout points. FP’s pretty sure those are the ones Fred’s talking about.

“What, you and me?”

“Yeah,” says Fred. “Why the hell not?”

* * *

FP and Jerry team up against Fred and essentially batter him with volleyballs for an hour and a half. Fred’s quick, and he’s got tenacity, but he has little actual skill to speak of and spends most of the time slipping in the sand and collapsing. Serving especially eludes him.

“Just hit it with the flat part of your arms, Fred.”

“No, cup your hands together.”

“Now turn your arms out.”

Jerry actually abandons the game at one point and puts his arms around Fred to try to teach him the right way, but to no avail. Fred winks at FP over the net when he does this, and FP’s pretty sure Fred’s laughing at him.

Currently, Fred’s preferred method of serving is to throw the ball really high in the air and smack it with his closed fist over the net. Easily intercepted, but at least the game was moving. His attempts to serve underhand usually end up with the ball hitting the sand like a rock while he swings at nothing. On one particularly bad serve he sends it flying sideways over a crowd of sunbathers, and a long-legged brunette in a ruffled one-piece brings it back and leaves her number.

“How the hell does he do it?” asks Jerry, dumbfounded, watching Fred grin at the girl writing out telephone digits on his bare arm.

FP doesn’t have an answer. He already knows he never will.

Once Fred masters serving they get a real game going, FP and Jerry taking turns against Fred. A small crowd of girls cluster around them, mostly for Jerry, but a couple of them cheer loudly when FP scores. If it doesn’t make him feel better about everything, at least it doesn’t make him feel any worse. Once it becomes clear that Fred is terribly outmatched, though, the crowd’s sympathy sways in his favour. Jerry pulls off an impressive spike that leaves a six-inch dent in the sand and gets only a smattering of applause, while Fred hits the ball into the net and gets cheered for. Fred is waving and smiling like he’s JFK. FP wants to kill him.

“You know something about Fred, FP?” Jerry asks him with a grin as they’re taking a break for water. “If he wasn’t so likeable he’d be impossible to like.”

FP doesn’t think he’s ever heard it put so well.

By round two the crowd has dissipated and they get a real game going, two on one, like they’d intended. FP and Jerry have Fred running back and forth in front of the net, and his skin is glistening with sweat by the end of it. FP tries not to look too hard.

“Let’s go easy on him for a bit,” whispers Jerry to FP. “Let him think he has a chance, then cream him.”

It works better than they’d hoped. FP lets a few easy ones drop, and just as Fred is starting to get cocky, a line of the swimsuit competitors come by. Then he slams point after point onto the ground, Fred missing by wider and wider margins each time.

By the end of it Fred’s face is bright red, and his hair is hanging limply in his eyes. “Stop” he begs, once the bodybuilders get bored and head off back to the parking lot. “I can’t do it anymore.”

He looks so hot and miserable that FP has to grin, ducking under the net and reaching out to ruffle up his sweaty hair.

“You win.” Fred says, and then sags dramatically against FP’s chest. And maybe he’d feel like a winner if the touch of Fred’s hot, wet body against his didn’t momentarily wipe everything else from his mind.

* * *

 

“No swimming, then.”

“Not yet.” Fred gasps. He’s walking slowly, clothes and shoes in hand. Jerry had waved a cheerful goodbye to them at the volleyball nets, and they were heading the long way down back down to the water. “I’m going to be sore for a week! You football players are assholes.”

“Comes with the job.”

Fred groans aloud and brushes aside some long grass. “All those hot guys were looking at me. I’ll never forgive you for this.”

FP isn’t worried. The longest Fred’s held a grudge against him to date was around fifteen minutes, and even that was an outstanding case.

“I need to sleep,” groans Fred and flops down on the sandy path right where they’re walking. “Let’s just take a nap.”

“What, right here?”

“Right here. Lay down, FP.” Fred reaches up for FP’s hand and pulls him down to the ground. FP obediently makes himself comfortable, sheltering his eyes from the sun with one hand.

“How long are we gonna lie here?”

“Like, ten minutes.” Fred’s eyes are shut, his chest rising and falling heavily. They’re lying side-to-side, and FP can feel his ribs expanding with every breath. A cloud momentarily blocks the worst of the sun, and FP lets his hand fall back to his side. The sky above them is a pure, unchanging blue, dotted here and there with clouds.

“Hey,” FP offers, “I bet if we stay out late enough we’d get a pretty good view of the stars.”

“What?”

“The stars, I said.”

“Sounds good.” says Fred sleepily, and throws an arm over FP.

It’s like being pinned to the ground by a lead weight, only oddly, he’s never felt lighter.

* * *

 

FP wakes up cold and damp, fresh clean water running in his nose and mouth. He sits up, blinking rain from his eyes. The sand under his hands is coarse and gritty, the sky above him completely blotted out by clouds. The wind off the water is slanting the rain directly into his eyes. He shoves the sleeping lump next to him.

“Fred.”

“Mmm. What.”

“It’s raining.”

Around them, the beach is almost entirely empty. Fred yawns and opens his eyes. “Five more minutes.”

“No, get up.”

A lone beach ball floats along the water ahead of them. Fred springs to his feet, all energy suddenly back. “Wow.” He sweeps his hair out of his eyes. “It’s really coming down.”

FP prods his face experimentally, feeling the skin of his cheeks. “Am I burnt?”

Fred spares him a half-glance. “Probably. How about me?”

“Probably.” FP tilts his head back and looks up at the sky. “I guess we should head.”

“Hey, let’s head for the water.”

“What? Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious? We’re already wet.”

“Can’t argue with that logic.”

Fred leads the way down the path to a rockier stretch of beach. They wade along in the shallows for a long while, cool foam swirling around their ankles. Fred yelps when a long tendril of seaweed, carried loose by the current, sweeps up around his leg and FP jokingly picks him up.

“You’re heavy.”

“It’s all that money in my pockets.”

Above them, the sky turns purple and rumbles with thunder. The lifeguard towers are deserted. FP watches their bare feet, trying to pace his steps so they walk in time. There’s a lot of things he wishes he could say right now. A lot of things he wants to tell him. But all he can manage is the same loyal phrase -

“Don’t worry about Hermione.”

“What?”

“Hermione.” He has to yell over the rain. “She’d be stupid to go for a guy like Hiram over a guy like you.”

Fred turns to him, and says something, but there’s too much rain sleeting in FP’s eyes to read his expression, and the wind takes whatever he says and hurls it out somewhere on the water.

They find a rocky outcropping at the base of the cliff and duck underneath it. FP’s starting to shiver, and Fred’s arms hook around him.

“I got you.” Fred murmurs in his ear. “It’s okay.”

_No, it’s not._

_It’s not._

Ahead of them, the waves crash ferociously into the surf. The blue ink from the phone number on Fred’s arm is running in rivulets off his skin. Fred just grins when FP points it out. “Easy come, easy go.”

His arms are still tight around him. If he closes his eyes he can pretend he deserves them.

“FP?” Fred’s voice is softer than usual, more uncertain.

“Yeah?”

“You ever get scared of...”

“Of what?”

But Fred himself doesn’t seem to know how that sentence ends. “Of…” FP can’t see his face, but he can feel his chest rise and fall against his back. “Of ruining something good?”

“With Hermione, you mean?”

The rain is pounding the roof of their shelter. Fred doesn’t answer. “We’re never gonna get back to the car like this.” His laugh shakes just a bit, vibrating against FP’s neck. “I wonder how long it’s gonna last.”

“Ruining what, Fred?”

The wind howls. Fred’s skin is very warm against his. “Like, say you want something…. But you feel like you’ll waste it. Because you want other stuff too.” He hesitates. “That doesn’t make sense does it?”

It does, actually. Under one very specific context.

Fred lets him go, and FP immediately feels colder. “Hey-” he tries to joke, voice so small the wind seems to swallow it whole. “I’m still cold.”

“I can warm you up.”

Something in Fred’s tone makes him pause. It’s not the voice he’s used to. It’s not a joke anymore.

They’re all alone out here.

His heart is pounding.

He leans in before he’s conscious of what he’s doing, like he’s metal and Fred’s a magnet and he can’t get close enough. Like Fred’s a sun and he’s been pulled into orbit. Fred’s leaning at the same time, and if they’re not careful they’re going to smash heads.

Like this collision is necessary to keep the world turning.

Fred’s eyes are open just inches from his, eyelashes practically scraping FP’s cheeks. “F-” he whispers.

FP closes the gap.

And, god, it’s like kissing fire.

* * *

“You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah. Probably get my ass kicked, but I deserve it.”

FP smiles, idling at the curb below the Andrews’ driveway as Fred leans in his window. He and Fred had very different definitions of what an ass-kicking was when it came to their respective parents, and Fred’s is no cause for concern. Fred seems to realize this and wets his lips nervously.

“How about you?”

“Don’t worry about me.” He can’t keep his eyes off Fred’s lips, still swollen from kissing. From kissing FP. “Dad’s out of town.”

“You still mad I kept you from mowing lawns?”

“Shut up.” FP grabs Fred’s shoes from the floor of the car. “Get this stuff out of my car. ”

Fred takes the shoes and slips out of the window. “Well, bye.”

“Bye.” At once it seems an inadequate parting. Fred keeps standing there, shirt untucked, shoes off, looking at him. Finally he cracks a smile.

“You waiting for me to say I love you, or what?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” says FP honestly.

“You say it first.”

FP hesitates just a fraction of a second too long. Fred pops the door back open, climbs half-into the passenger seat, pulls FP to him, fastens his teeth into his skin, and sucks a hickey into his neck.

“Fuck, Fred-” He shoves him off, rubbing the welt on his throat, eyes wide. “People will see!”

“See what?” asks Fred innocently, slipping back out of the car. “See you tomorrow, F. If I’m not grounded.”

There’s a right thing to say, here, something even more meaningful than what Fred had offered, but they probably couldn’t have found it even together if they’d spent years. Fred’s nobody’s poet. FP even less.

So he gives him the finger as he pulls away from the curb, which is the best he can do, under the circumstances.

Then he watches Fred’s house get smaller in his rearview mirror until it’s out of sight.


End file.
